NICHOLAS WOLTERSTORFF - Philosophers respond to Pope John Paul II's encyclical letter, Fides et Ratio

Philosophers respond to Pope John Paul II's encyclical letter,
Fides et Ratio

NICHOLAS WOLTERSTORFF

T    he issuance of Fides et Ratio is an extraordinary event. That a subtle philosophical
discourse should be issued by the head of a vast ecclesiastical bureaucracy! We must all
behold with awe and astonishment this achievement of the Church of Rome. Those of us
who are not members will find a good dose of envy mixed in with our awe and
astonishment.

Pervading the entire document is the both/and style of rhetoric: as in—above all—both
faith and reason. We, in our time and place, are not much drawn to this rhetorical style.
We prefer the disjunctive over the conjunctive. The conjunctive style smacks to us of
indecision; we prefer the confrontational, attention-getting bite of either/or. But Fides et
Ratio is by no means indecisive. Its both/and is full of bite.

With one single discourse, Fides et Ratio addresses two quite different sorts of
intellectual ills in contemporary society: on the one hand, the skepticisms of
immanentism; on the other, the suspicions of fideism. Both/and.

On the one hand, there are those who, in the words of the encyclical, "distrust…the
human being's great capacity for knowledge." They "rest content with partial and
provisional truths, no longer seeking to ask radical questions about the meaning and
ultimate foundation of human, personal and social existence." They have "lost the
capacity to lift [their] gaze to the heights, not daring to rise to the truth of being.
Abandoning the investigation of being, modern philosophical research has concentrated
in stead upon human knowing. Rather than make use of the human capacity to know the
truth, modern philosophy has preferred to accentuate the ways in which this capacity is
limited and conditioned." We are, it is said, "at the end of metaphysics." In thus speaking,
philosophy has "forgotten that men and women are always called to direct their steps to
wards a truth which transcends them."

That is one of the intellectual ills to which the encyclical is addressed: the skepticisms of
immanentism. The other is the suspicions of fideism. The fideist is one who, again in the
words of the encyclical, "fails to recognize the importance of rational knowledge and
philosophical discourse for the understanding of faith, indeed, for the very possibility of
belief in God." Among the manifestations that the encyclical cites of the skepticisms of
fideism are biblicism in scriptural interpretation and disdain for philosophy and
speculative theology.

The pope addresses both these intellectual illnesses at once by offering a discourse,
informed and subtle, on faith and reason. That discourse grounds, in turn, a vigorous and

visionary call to boldness. To the immanentist the pope says: do not be content with
exploring the subjective and the anthropological; inquire boldly into what lies beyond the
self. To the fideist the pope says: Do not be content with "mere faith"; appropriate boldly
the riches of the philosophical tradition so as both to deepen our understanding of the
faith and to exercise "critical discernment" on the intellectual endeavors of humanity
generally. Fides et Ratio, to say it again, is a vigorous and visionary call to boldness—
boldness in the use of reason, boldness in the exercise of faith. Once again: both/and.

I am a philosopher who stands in the Reformed tradition of Christianity—that tradition
that traces its roots to the Reformation, which originated in the Swiss cities and was
shaped, above all, by John Calvin. When I read the pope's discourse on faith and reason, I
read it with the eyes and mind of such a person. Calvinists have been known to say some
rather bracing things about Catholic modes of thought in general, and about popes in
particular. Could it be that those disputes are on the way to disappearing? For I find
myself in almost complete agreement with what the pope says about the relation of faith
and reason. I would want to debate with him some of the things he says about the history
of philosophy. I think, for example, that there is rather less core consensus than he seems
to think there is. And I have some hesitations on a few peripheral matters: what he says
about the authoritative status of tradition, for example, and some of what he says about
the role of Mary. But what he says on the topic of faith and reason seems to me both true
and needing to be said. Such convergence between these two traditions, though
disappointing to the agonistic spirit implanted in all of us by life in a competitive society,
is a wonderful thing for anyone formed by the spirit of the gospel.

Let me move on to state what it is I am agreeing with—that is, what I understand the
pope to be saying. And let me begin by offering you what I regard as the key for
unlocking the interpretation of the whole discussion—the hermeneutic key. I suggest that
if one is to understand what the pope is saying, one must constantly keep in mind the
distinction between properly functioning human reason, and human reason as it actually
functions in its fallen state. When the pope is speaking of the former, he can sound
exceedingly confident and optimistic concerning the powers of reason; when he is
speaking of the latter, he can sound eminently realistic and, on occasion, even
judgmental. If one fails to take note of the always implicit distinction between properly
functioning human reason and actually functioning fallen reason, one will think he is
contradicting himself—wanting things both ways. But not so.

We in the Reformed tradition have thought that our brothers and sisters in the Catholic
tradition speak too little of the actuality of fallen reason, too much of the ideality of
properly functioning reason; those in the Catholic tradition have thought exactly the
opposite of us—that we Calvinists have majored in fallenness and minored in proper
functioning. Whatever the accuracy of those historical judgments be, the pope, in Fides et
Ratio, splits the difference. "At the deepest level," says the pope, "the autonomy which
philosophy enjoys is rooted in the fact that reason is by its nature oriented to truth and is
equipped moreover with the means necessary to arrive at truth." But then, after a few
intervening paragraphs, comes this reminder: "it is necessary to keep in mind" that the
"formulations" actually offered by philosophy "are shaped by history and produced by

human reason wounded and weakened by sin." Well! "Reason wounded and weakened by
sin"—no Calvinist could ask for more. "Reason oriented by its nature to truth and
equipped to arrive"—no Catholic could ask for more than that. Indeed, in one brief
extraordinary paragraph of just two sentences, the pope puts both themes together: "it
was part of the original plan of the creation that reason should without difficulty reach
beyond the sensory data to the origin of all things: the Creator. But because of the
disobedience by which man and woman chose to set themselves in full and absolute
autonomy in relation to the One who had created them, this ready access to God the
Creator diminished." Of course, there will continue to be disagreements on the details of
reason's powers when properly functioning, and on the extent to which the wounds
impair proper functioning.

Using as my hermeneutic key this distinction between proper functioning and actual
fallen functioning, let me now briefly summarize the encyclical's pattern of thought. A
central component in what singles out the human being from the rest of God's earthly
creatures is that the human being is "the one who seeks the truth." Truth comes, of
course, in many forms, and as the answer to many questions. What especially impels the
search for truth that we find exhibited in philosophy and the sciences is the innate human
impulse "to ask why things are as they are" and the impulse to discover the meaning of
life. These impulses impel us beyond partial and fragmentary truths toward "universal
and absolute truth." People, says the pope, "seek an absolute which might give to all their
searching a meaning and an answer—something ultimate, which might serve as the
ground of all things. In other words, they seek a final explanation, a supreme value,
which refers to nothing beyond itself and which puts an end to all questioning." "It is
unthinkable," he adds, "that a search so deeply rooted in human nature would be
completely vain and useless." On the other hand, there are distinct limits to the powers of
human reason, even when functioning properly. Though reason can "discover the
Creator," it can do relatively little by way of discovering the nature and deeds of the
Creator.

And now for the role of faith: "underlying all the Church's thinking is the awareness that
she is the bearer of a message which has its origin in God himself." This message is
revelation, the loving acceptance of which is faith. This revelation comes not as the
repudiation of reason, but as its perfection. For just as the goal and attainment of reason is
truth, so too, the content of revelation, and hence of faith, is truth—truth about God, truth
also about God's dealings with humankind and the world. This truth of revelation
"perfects all that the human mind can know of the meaning of life" and of the
explanations of things. Accordingly, reason accepts it gladly—even though it comes to
reason as gift rather than achievement.

It must not be supposed, however, that reason simply stands passive before this gift. The
long tradition of fides quaerens intellectum, faith seeking understanding, testifies
otherwise. Faith enables reason to exercise its powers within realms to which it would
otherwise have no access whatsoever; we are able now to reflect, for example, on the
Trinity. In the words of the encyclical, faith serves "to lead the search for truth to new
depths, enabling the mind in its autonomous exploration to penetrate within the mystery

by use of reason's own methods, of which it is rightly jealous." Mystery, of course,
remains and will always remain; God is not to be grasped. Yet, though revelation appears
within our existence as something gratuitous, it not only "seeks acceptance as an
expression of love" but also "itself stirs thought."

This, so far, is about reason when functioning properly, and about its relation, when thus
functioning, to revelation and faith. Now for reason in its fallen actual functioning—
"weakened and wounded" reason, as the pope calls it. Weakened and wounded reason
ever and again fails to achieve what it could achieve; it fails, for example, "to recognize
God as Creator of all,…not because [it lacks] the means to do so, [but]
because…sinfulness [places] an impediment in the way." And worse than failing to
achieve what it could achieve, it takes "wrong turns," these wrong turns often bringing its
results into conflict with revealed truth.

As a consequence, revelation and faith stand to the results of unaided reason not just as
supplement, stimulus, and aid to further endeavor; they also stand to those results as
corrective and guide. Accordingly, it becomes the church's duty, mainly through her
philosophers, though also through her theologians and bishops, "to indicate the elements
in a philosophical system which are incompatible with her own faith." Thereby the
church fulfills "a humble but tenacious ministry of service which every philosopher
should appreciate, a service in favour of recta ratio, or of reason reflecting rightly upon
what is true."

What this presupposes is critical discernment on the part of the philosophers, the
theologians, the bishops, and indeed all the members of the church. The church must
speak neither a blanket "yes" nor a blanket "no" to the results of philosophical endeavor;
she must speak always and only a critically discerning both "yes" and "no." This theme of
critical discernment first gets sounded about a third of the way through the encyclical
when the pope is discussing the attitude toward Greek philosophy of those two great, and
customarily op posed, fathers of the church, Clement and Tertullian. Once sounded, the
need for critical discernment remains one of the dominant themes for the remainder of the
encyclical.

A presupposition of this insistence on the need for critical discernment is worth bringing
to the fore. A common strategy in the modern world has been to construe revelation in
such a way that it could not possibly come into conflict with philosophy, nor with any of
the other disciplines. The pope will have nothing to do with this—rightly so, in my
judgment. The concern of both reason and revelation is with truth. And given the
impulsive character of those fundamental questions of meaning and explanation that
drive reason on its journey, and given the expansive character of revelation, what we
must expect, when reason becomes weakened and wounded, is that conflicts will arise
between revelation, on the one hand, and academic learning, on the other. Hence the need
for critical discernment.

Fides et Ratio is an extraordinarily rich and dialectically subtle encyclical. I have tried to
communicate some of its dialectic subtlety by laying out what I interpret as its central

argument— an argument with which, as I have already noted, I am in full agreement. Its
richness cannot be communicated in any summary.

Let me close with some brief comments on the significance of the encyclical. As with
most encyclicals, Fides et Ratio is an intervention—an intervention, in this case, into two
developments within the Christian community and in society more generally—one of
them, a development within theology, the other, a development within philosophy.

To my mind there can be no doubt whatsoever that the pope has put his finger on the
fundamental ill from which theology has been suffering in recent years. All too often in
recent years theology has been in headlong flight from metaphysics—that is, from a
willingness to speak about God in particular and reality in general. Sometimes this flight
takes the form of repudiating philosophy in general. About 25 years ago it often took the
form of embracing phenomenological or linguistic philosophy. In recent years it regularly
takes the form of embracing one and another sort of deconstrucionist philosophy.
Whichever form it takes, traditional philosophy is treated either with suspicion or
disregard; and the theologians of the tradition are either ignored, or reinterpreted as
deconstructionists, phenomenologists, or whatever, born out of season.

Into this mélange of metaphysical timidity the pope issues a ringing call for boldness on
the part of the church's theologians: having the boldness to acknowledge that revelation,
whatever else it may be, is a revelation of truth—truth about what transcends us, but also
truth about what surrounds us. Revelation is not just "God-talk" but talk about God—true
talk.

But Fides et Ratio is also an intervention into philosophy. And there can be no doubt that
the pope has also put his finger on at least one of the ills from which philosophy has been
suffering in recent years. One of the reasons theology has become so metaphysically
pusillanimous is that philosophy has become that. What has characterized large stretches
of philosophy in the twentieth century is that reality has receded ever further away, to the
point where some have asked: What's the point of speaking about reality at all? Many
philosophers and their devotees have understandably drawn the conclusion that truth and
goodness, if they are not simply to be discarded, will have to be relativized.

To this, the pope's response is not that the church repudiate philosophy, which is what so
many among my fellow Protestants would say, but that the philosophers of the church
have the boldness to develop what he explicitly calls "Christian philosophy"—that is,
"philosophical speculation conceived [and practiced] in dynamic union with faith."

How surprising and ironic that roughly two centuries after Voltaire and his cohorts
mocked the church as the bastion of irrationality, the church, in the person of the pope,
should be the one to put in a good word for reason, and for faith as reason's ally.
Surprising, ironic, and gratifying! It's my own deep hope, speaking now both as
philosopher and as Reformed Protestant, that the pope's call for boldness will embolden
theologians and philosophers to do exactly what he is calling for. In doing so, they will
both respect the extraordinary dignity of human reason and honor the love displayed by

God in revealing to us dimensions of truth that would otherwise forever have eluded us,
or left us in wavering indecision.

Nicholas Wolterstorff is Noah Porter Professor of Philosophical Theology at Yale University. He is the
author of many books, including most recently John Locke and the Ethics of Belief (Cambridge Univ.
Press).